


Fear

by edka88



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edka88/pseuds/edka88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped between decisions she was left on her own with only her fears as guidance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear

She knew it immediately.

That voice... she would recognize it anywhere.

But how when there couldn't be more than ten seconds when Don Juan was not on stage… it was a mystery. Piangi left for the briefest time as it was supposed to, and then it was Erik who returned in his place. Frankly, Christine expected something sinister from him when she didn't hear a word from him before the performance but this... She couldn't decide if she was more afraid of what might have happened to Piangi – or of what might happen to Erik. Everyone expected him to appear in box five – which was probably why he didn't – and now it was impossible to tell if that outrageous plan would still be carried out when he was on stage.

She tried to stop it, several times, actually, but without success. Raoul was very adamant when it came to his 'brilliant' idea, and though she made more than one attempt to talk him out of it, it was no use. When compassion didn't work she tried reasoning – with the same disheartening result. Part of her didn't expect him to understand why she was more than reluctant in participating a premeditated murder against him, but why he didn't listen to reason, then, was just beyond her. She told him that Erik would know about the trap well before it was even set but it seemed that Raoul didn't hear anything she said. Or rather he did, but dismissed it as nonsense and unfounded.

Should he have been impolite or disrespectful it would have rendered the decision way easier to make but he never treated her with anything less than a courteous, gentle manner, and that despicable patronizing tone could be barely noticed most of the time. Theoretically, she knew that he was far above her with his illustrious ancestors and his wealth – not to mention his excellent upbringing – but she could never come to accept it. And to think that should she marry him she would have to put up with that in her whole life...

After one of the failed attempts at convincing him she couldn't bear it any longer and revealed everything to Erik – or at least she supposed so. No answer came from her mirror, and though she hoped he would come and listen to her, his silence was not at all unexpected. Ever since the masquerade they didn't speak a word and even before that their conversations were scarce and infrequent, the result of that ominous morning she had spent at his house. Still, she thought that he at least listened even if he refused to talk to her.

Apparently he did not.

Or maybe he did, and that was why he altered his most probably first plan.

She was started back to the present when all of a sudden he stopped singing, then took an awkward step away from her as if the previous minutes of confidence never existed.

"Thank you," he breathed, letting go of her hand and taking another step backwards.

"But you still came here," she rasped, an uncomfortable chill setting around her stomach.

He shook his head briefly. "No; for pretending. While singing."

Suddenly she was very much aware of the stares of hundreds of people burning on her back. I wasn't. "Erik, the opera house is full of gendarmes."

"I know."

"Then why?"

"This was always meant to be sung together, and I… I'm selfish. I wanted to have this for one last time."

The loud whispers around them turned into a low buzz and a cold breeze swept over her.

"Last time?" She repeated.

"You're free to marry him. I should have never…"

She never learned what he wanted to say – the loud crack of a gunshot cut through the air.

She swayed on her knees, fearing for a moment that they would give out from under her. Her ears seemed to ring with the echoes of the gunshot as every other sound faded into oblivion – and he was still standing in front of her.

Run.

An unpleasant tingle started on her nape before it quickly spiraled down on her spine. He was not moving, save for the irregular rise and fall of his chest. It seemed they had been standing there for an eternity – and it was impossible to tell how much time they had left.

Or rather, he had.

"Take me so they won't shoot," she whispered hurriedly, surprised by her own offer.

His sight dropped to her stuck out arm then lifted again to her face. Several emotions and thoughts swirled in his eyes, present all at once and yet impossible to discern. What are you waiting for?!

The so far frozen auditorium started to buzz with anxious whispers and loud shouts.

"Erik."

At her plea he closed his eyes for the briefest moment behind the mask, then almost immediately a tight grasp encircled her wrist and she tumbled to the side as he yanked her off of the stage and to the wings. Behind her, the auditorium erupted with the various noises of a commotion.

He headed to the left and then dodged a couple of people from the cast, his fingers keeping a close hold on her arm. She could only assume they were moving toward the tunnels, and she attempted to match her steps to his as he pulled her through a series of small rooms and closets. Heart hammering in her throat she tried to ignore the growing uneasiness: depending on how much people had understood from the events on the stage, she could have been now very well regarded as an accessory. Mostly it was Raoul's opinion that mattered on the affair, though, probably, and he would likely interpret it as if he had somehow manipulated her into helping him. As much as it would work on her benefit it was still degrading.

With a sweep of his arm he drew aside the curtain on their right and pulled her with him, then she stumbled several steps to the opposite direction when he suddenly pushed her away. She caught herself on a small table, knocking off a couple of items on it to the floor with a sickening crash. Air hitched in the throat as her left knee collided with one of the legs of the table and she tried to swallow the rising pain.

Behind her something gave a dull thud, as if something heavy had just fallen to the wooden floorboards, and she whirled around. At first she couldn't even make out what happened but when she finally could, a chill ran down on her spine.

No.

Erik was now on the floor with two other men, fighting against the two of them at the same time. One of the men was crouching next to him and holding down his right arm as the other grabbed at the front of his jacket and punched him somewhere that she couldn't see, and bile rose in her throat at the muffled sound of it.

At least they weren't gendarmes, she noted with some sort of relief but who they were then she couldn't tell. One of them was strangely familiar, one of the stagehands, perhaps, but the other she couldn't recognize. Not as if it mattered, though.

The unknown man caught one of his arms and the stagehand hit him again… She cringed with the feeling of that strike but she couldn't hear a sound of pain from him.

Then the somewhat familiar man, the stagehand, stepped to side – to deliver the next blow, maybe – and pulled on him as well so that he stumbled to his feet; but before the assailant could hit him again he kicked his feet out from under the man. As he straightened his posture for the fraction of a moment she caught a glimpse of his face...

His bare face.

She couldn't decide if the mask coming undone accidentally or the two men taking it by force was worse.

The gruesome deformity stood out harshly against his previously fine attire – and clashed against his confidence as Don Juan. Unwanted, memories of the first time that she had seen it rushed to her mind, shock and dread still lurking behind the images; but now there was something else there, too, something different…

His hair, she realized. It used to be of a darker shade.

It took a long moment until she grasped why, and her stomach clenched into a tight knot.

He had always been so proud and dignified…

Now he was treated with the utmost indignity.

In front of her the tumble continued: the unknown man beat him again but the next blow didn't reach him: Erik twisted the stagehand's arm so that now it was bent high up against his back and the man cried out in pain, then he showed him aside just in time to catch the other man's arm and knock him in the face. Blood started to trickle out of his nose as he stumbled to the side.

It was the most uncivilized struggle; completely unworthy to the divine creature who possessed the most ethereal voice she'd ever heard… And had it not been for the early shot, she should have participated in carrying out the same fate at him; at least she was supposed to. She shuddered.

All of a sudden, the somehow familiar man fell at her feet and she took a startled step back. She waited for a long moment that seemed to turn into hours: the man didn't move.

Dead or just unconscious…?

The edge of the man's coat was wrinkled upwards a little – probably from the fall – and it revealed the hilt of a dagger, tucked into the back of his belt.

She swallowed uneasily.

Had he had time to reach for it…

She was mercifully yanked out of her dwelling, though, by a rather unmerciful crack – she looked up just in time to witness how Erik showed the other man to the wall, and she had no desire to figure out what might have caused that sickening sound. The man continued to struggle and thrash against his hold but there was no use: it only took that man a couple of moments to slide down the wall with a loud thump.

Heart in her throat, she waited for him to turn back to her but instead of that his knees buckled so that he could barely catch himself on a nearby cabinet. Almost immediately, though, he whirled around, and it was only now that she realized that her ears were throbbing from the sound of a gunshot. Her senses seemed to perceive sooner and faster what happened while her mind had a hard time catching up with them, and so she ended up standing in her place, paralyzed.

She watched with an eerie calmness how he struggled with pain while lifting himself, then shuffle back to the wall, his eyes never leaving that something that she couldn't see.

Just a breath of time later a gendarme appeared in the doorway on her left, his arms holding up the weapon that had just injured him.

The walls around her distorted before her eyes and the next beat of her heart came with an unnerving ache. She didn't even know how bad it was – and the gendarme was already lifting his arm to reload that damned gun.

Her throat closed when his shoulders stiffened, awaiting the next shot.

A soft click as the bullet loaded to its place.

Her heart was now thumping in her throat.

In less than a moment he'd be dead – and she wouldn't even be granted one final look into his eyes: he never once looked into her direction.

Why, why, why…?

Some strange energy flooded her veins with the realization: to not give her away. The gendarme was most probably oblivious to her presence.

And she was standing right behind him.

He aimed.

Blood pounded in her ears as she swiftly crouched to the body lying at her feet, and then…

She let go of the hilt as the gun clattered on the ground, then took an involuntary step back when the body fell to the floor. The thud seemed to echo around her; loud enough to block out the noise of dozens of people that she knew was there.

She was certain even without looking that there was now a heap of clothes at her feet yet she couldn't not look down at it: the pile was not moving.

She swallowed.

The pounding in her ears slowly gave way to a horrendous ringing.

Not moving…

It was only the weight of someone watching her that made her eyes drift from it: Erik was still leaning against the small case beside him, his green eyes staring back at her.

Had she been a bit less dizzy she would have tried to identify that wide-eyed look. Right now, she was content to remind herself to breathe.

In and out.

The fog started to fade.

Again.

She saw his throat moving with a swallow.

I've just killed a man.

She took a staggering step back until she hit something behind her, then reached back blindly to brace herself against it.

It must have happened although she barely remembered it; only that bizarre resistance that forced her to hold the knife tighter as it…

The room swam before her eyes as she started to sway, but before she fell to the floor two arms appeared around her and she sagged against them, gripping fistfuls of clothing to keep herself upright.

Erik.

He was strangely motionless against her and it occurred only slowly that it must have been because she was shaking. A long, nauseous moment passed as she tried to find the strength to stand on her own but she failed miserably. Her irregular breathing only added to the reeling in her head until she had to struggle to fight down the rising sickness.

I'm fine.

But nothing could be farther from the truth.

His warm embrace brought comfort, though, and she snuggled up even closer to him; his arms twitched around her but then returned her tighter hold.

The noise seemed to close around them.

We should leave.

But his hold was so blissfully warm and moving hurt, even speech was beyond her; the words could barely pass her dry throat when she tried to speak. "He's dead, isn't he?"

He shifted against her a little. "Yes."

Her stomach gave an alarming twist. "I didn't mean to…"

"I know." One of his hands disappeared from her back, then reappeared with the softest brush on her hair a moment later. "I know." Then he stepped away from her completely, taking the blissful warmth as well. "We cannot stay here."

Before she could form any kind of answer she felt herself being tugged to the side a little; she wanted to move with it, to obey yet it seemed that her body simply refused to cooperate – she ended up being half-dragged away, only partly able to walk on her own.

The upheaval still raged only a couple of feet around them.

He led her somewhere to the left, opening a door and then closing it behind her. There was another door on the opposite wall and it was slightly ajar; he crossed the room to take a look through it. He pulled back swiftly and didn't shut the door.

"This way." He pointed somewhere on the other side of the door. "You'll get back to your room safely there."

"But…" He was moving to the opposite direction, where they had come from. "You're not going that way," she stated numbly.

"No," he said curtly. "Now go."

A cold tingle had already started on her back, and when he ventured only a fleeting glance at her, her stomach knotted painfully.

"No." It came out sooner than she realized she had spoken at all.

His eyes flitted to her face again and the cold wave of fear flooded her body again. "Christine, you cannot stay here," he said, his voice almost breaking in the middle of the sentence.

"Neither can you," she retorted. An unsettling humming started somewhere near the two of them, then slowly grew in intensity as it came closer – the mingled shouts of several people.

Her legs were trembling and twitching restlessly.

Run.

"Christine, go."

"But…" Briefly she closed her eyes, sweeping a hand across her face. "What about…" That.

"Don't care about it. Go back to your room."

"But…" The low murmur of people grew as they neared. Her head felt dizzy.

"I'll take it upon myself if it comes to that. Now go." He stepped back, pushing her a little to the opposite direction.

From the corner of her eyes she saw how a wince ghosted over his face as he adjusted his weight and she shivered from realization: he'd been shot minutes ago. Her eyes wandered down on his body – there was a dark stain around the rip on his trousers on his thigh. She saw when it happened yet the knowledge still eluded her bearings up until now. That was why she stumbled after him when he pulled her aside from where it happened – he was staggering himself.

A long tremor rippled through her body and her throat tightened.

And still he's brought me here.

The tinkle of metal blurred into the previous clatter of people.

Gendarmes.

She had just killed one of them. And he offered to take it upon himself.

It was all silent on the other side of the door…

Beside her he shifted again, as if he could barely stand on his own.

Her throat tightened painfully.

"No." She licked her lips and wiped her forehead with a shaking hand. "I'm going with you," she told him, taking a step towards him but he backed away.

"I'll be fine," he gritted out. "You are in danger." Something gave a soft screeching sound behind them and his eyes immediately snapped to its direction, then returned to her when it didn't continue. "All of your troubles end if you leave now."

Her face started to tingle sooner than the words sunk in. "Leaving you has never been what I wanted," she choked. "Nor is it what you want."

His lips pulled into a brief, mournful smile. "No. But what I want has always been too much to ask for."

It took only two short steps to catch up with him. The material of his jacket crinkled between her fingers as they curled around his lapels and he almost pulled back as she leaned up to him, then he froze altogether when her lips finally brushed against his.

His eyes were still squeezed firmly shut when she pulled back a moment later; he only opened them when she softly took his wrist to help him walk away.

"Let's go," she rasped, starting towards the open door and pulling him with her. This time he didn't resist, but probably he was more dazed than convinced. She closed the door swiftly behind them.

The first few meters were a struggle: she was holding onto his forearm, trying to brace him enough to be able to walk while he was all intended on not leaning on her at all. He ended up tiring himself only after a couple of steps.

"Let me help you," she told him, swallowing with difficulty as his eyes closed for the briefest moment.

"You shouldn't even be here," he whispered.

"You can dwell on that later. Come on."

He let go of the wall with a sigh, his eyes dropping to her hand where it was holding onto his wrist; then allowed her to drape his arm across her shoulders to support some of his weight. It took only about three steps until they fell into a comfortable pattern, and they walked the route together that she was supposed to make on her own only a few minutes earlier.

"You shouldn't risk going to your room with me," he said, his voice strangely even, but she still heard that strained tone in it.

"I cannot go down to your house barefoot," she reasoned, watching with a pang of pain as his left foot shuffled a little with every step.

He let out a soft sigh and motioned feebly to their right. "This way, then."

They turned to a passage that she remembered only faintly, at the end of it seeing a part of scenery that was a bit more familiar. From the passage they entered a narrow tunnel that she didn't even know existed but finally lead up to the corridor to her dressing room.

"So this is how you go unseen all the time," she commented, partly just to try to dispel that uneasy feeling around her stomach. His breathing was becoming more and more ragged.

He made a small sound that could pass as agreement but he didn't say anything.

In two steps they reached the door; she opened it and then entered with a sigh of relief when there was no one at the other side of it. She turned the key as soon as the door closed behind them and then hurried to her vanity. Light flooded the room as she turned up the lamp on her left, the shadows of various object dancing on the carpet with every move of the flame. He stayed where he was, leaning back to the door.

"Don't you sit down?" She asked him.

"It would only make it worse," he told her, closing his eyes and resting his head against the door.

She stooped to take her shoes, then flopped down to the chair next to the vanity to yank them on hastily. He remained at the door, motionless, only the slow rise and fall of his chest disturbing his posture.

"How bad is it?" She asked, half-hoping he would refuse to answer.

"It seems worse than it actually is," he said, opening his eyes only now, regarding her with an unnamable expression.

Slowly her eyes slid from his face, down to where the tattered material of his pants clung to his thigh and she shuddered. Despite that he tried to dismiss her concern every time the wound still needed to be taken care of even until they got down to his house; to be covered at least, if nothing else. She opened drawer after drawer in search of something suitable until she remembered the strip she used for her strained ankle. She walked back to him with the thick, white cloth.

"Would you let me take a look at it?" She asked him.

"No," came his abrupt answer.

With a sigh she handed him the strip, and he took it after a short hesitation.

"Thank you." The words were barely above a whisper.

However, instead of wrapping it around the wound he just draped it around his wrist, then his fingers closed around her forearm gently. "Christine, you're shaking."

"I'm fine," she declared. Because she was. It was just her hands! That slight tremble in her stomach surely was to be expected and the dizziness would certainly pass soon enough.

"Of course you are." Pushing away from the door he gently steered her towards the chair she had just stood from, and she floundered back blindly, collapsing on the chair finally. Such a bizarre feeling it was: her mind was alert as usual but her body was strangely numb; exhausted yet ready to run away.

"We should be leaving," she said, her voice weaker than she intended.

"You should be staying put," he murmured, limping after her with a glass in his hand, which he just took from the edge of the basin. When he got to her he placed the glass on the dressing table in front of her.

"At least stop walking around on it," she said; the strip was still hanging from his wrist where he'd folded it a minute ago.

He didn't answer her. "May I?" He asked instead, motioning towards the small cabinet beside them.

She nodded and he reached into it, pulling out the bottle of liquor, he then poured an unearthly amount of cognac into the glass.

"I don't think…" She began but he cut her off.

"Just drink it."

With a deep sigh she complied, gulping down the drink in four sips.

"Better?" He asked as soon as the glass hit the table again.

"I think so." The liquor was still burning on the back of her throat.

"Good," he concluded, and she continued to stare at the now empty glass on the vanity, watching how the ever-changing lamplight glinted on the brink.

A faint noise from outside began to slowly seep into the room, noise from all the people who were now chasing after the Phantom, yet another murder added to his list of crimes.

Except this time it wasn't him.

She did it.

Was she now a different person from who she used to be? Could she really change in a matter of an hour? She certainly didn't feel like a murderer – but did she get a say in it at all? If people knew that it was her they would undoubtedly want to hunt her down as well, especially that it was a gendarme that she had killed. And now she would have to live with the knowledge of what she had done.

Her stomach gave a trembling leap but it was soothed immediately – the result of alcohol, perhaps.

But… it was to save him. It wouldn't be any easier to live without him…

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Especially if she had seen him being shot right in front of her. Anything was better than that.

That strange pressure around her stomach began to melt and it seemed that the room wasn't so hazy anymore, either. As for what happened… better if she didn't think of it for now.

From the corner of her eyes she saw him folding the strip around his thigh with brisk movements, then he straightened his posture but leant against the vanity for support.

Several moments passed in silence.

"Christine, forgive me." At his low voice her head snapped up but he wasn't looking at her – he was staring at her hands, just as she had been only a moment ago. She didn't even notice it until now. "I know I don't deserve it; just let me ask for it. I never wanted this."

"This time it was me," she replied quietly, pulling her hands down to her lap.

"You wouldn't have had to do it if I hadn't come here."

"You didn't force me to do it."

He said nothing but the nervous energy continued to swirl around him – he didn't agree with her.

"Why did you, then?" He asked her at last.

"Because you wouldn't look at me!" She sprung from her seat, the unnerving quiver once again appearing in her stomach. When she turned back to him she was faced with his startled expression. "He would have shot you in a mere moment and I couldn't have even looked into your eyes for one last time before it happened." When her lips began to tremble she pressed them together, and she quickly averted her eyes, too, before he could witness the first tears escaping. Then drew in an even breath, trying to prevent her shoulders from shaking.

His voice was surprisingly soft when he spoke again. "I thought you detested me. After the masked ball."

"No, I was angry." A cold wave swept over her and she folded her arms around her stomach. "I didn't know you anymore. As if the Angel I loved never existed."

He tried twice before she heard his faint voice asking, "You loved me?"

The memory of what happened to Joseph Buquet was still as vivid as ever.

As was the relief she felt upon being held, even though she had just committed something that would be surely considered as his crime.

She turned back to him and could barely find her voice through the lump in her throat. "I still love you."

In the silence that followed she dared not to let out the breath she was holding; if he was breathing at all it was impossible to tell.

There was the softest rustle as his shoulders slouched.

A dull thump as he fell to his knees.

Air shuddering in and out of his lungs.

A soft cry.

"Christine." With an uncertain movement his arm lifted to take hold of the front of her dress, then he bowed his head over the battered material. It took her a couple of attempts until she could make out his muffled words. "I love you, too," he whispered into the fabric, repeating it several times.

Heat and cold swept over her all at once and a voiceless sob bubbled up from her chest.

He loved her.

The nerves that so far stood on their ends melted into the warmth that flooded her veins and the numbing wave of relief washed over her with an uneven sigh. Timidly, she placed one hand on his sparse hair, almost surprised at the warmth that met her skin, then felt the lightest tug as he tightened his grip on her dress.

His hunched form blurred in her vision and she lowered herself in front of him, holding out her arms in an indefinite invitation to hold him or to be held, she wasn't sure; and after his hands slowly released her dress the two of them met in an awkward embrace. A heartbeat later, his fingers splayed out on her back in a tentative hold and she sagged against him.

The nearness of him, the distinctly familiar scent of his clothes, the warmth of his skin against her cheek… It was all oddly familiar, even though he had never held her so close before tonight. On lonely nights she often wished that he would embrace her, tell her that he loved her and never let her go again. But when he didn't, indeed, she wanted nothing more than to be away from him, as far as possible – all the while longing for her lost friend who turned out to be the ruthless, fearful Phantom.

Who had let go all of his severity at hearing her words of love.

The silence around them stretched into long minutes.

"You're hurting yourself," she stuttered at last, thinking of the strain that his leg must have endured.

"I'm fine," he murmured. Then adjusted his posture.

"We should leave," she continued, still talking into his shoulder. "Probably this is the first place they'll look for us."

"No. She doesn't know about the mirror."

She repeated his words to herself in the hope of finding their meaning. "Who?" She blurted out finally.

"Madame Giry. She knows only one way to the house, and that is not this one."

"They wouldn't know that she knows anything."

His arms twitched slightly around her body, then his arms pulled her a little closer. "He would know where to find answers."

They were silent for a long minute.

"Do you think she'll disclose you?" She asked him at last.

"It won't be the first time," he remarked pointedly.

"Because she thought you'd hurt…"

Oh.

As far as Madame knew, he had taken her by force.

"Exactly," he said when she didn't continue.

She let out a sigh at that, then slowly withdraw from him, catching his hand between her two.

"I'll talk to her when all of this is over," she said, then climbed to her feet, reaching out her hand for him to take. Only after a moment he did and she pulled him up as well, then once again he braced himself on the edge of the vanity. Her hair fell over her eyes in the process so she swept it back with a determined brush of her hand before rummaging through the contents of her vanity for something – anything – to secure it into a quick bun with.

He had just shifted on his feet as she turned back to him.

"Would you have said yes?" He asked softly, his voice breathless as if in a struggle to bring himself to speak at all. "Before all this nonsense happened."

"How does any of this change my decision?"

His eyes cast a quick glance down at her hands, lingering a bit on her empty left hand. "You can still have that life, if you so wish," he said, eyes venturing back to hers. "No one will ever know what happened."

"You're not my last resort," she wheezed, trying to ignore the lump in her throat. "Nor a substitute." With a pang of guilt she added, "Actually, he was."

His wrist that rested at his side twitched slightly.

"He's… caring," he said weakly.

"He thinks I cannot make a reasonable decision on my own," she retorted and he let out a soft sigh in return.

"I haven't been any better, I'm afraid," he said quietly.

"At least you have never made me feel like a simpleton," she said with a sad half-smile, and his lips mirrored the gesture.

Right after that his arm lifted to the edge of his jacket but stopped in mid-motion, then after a short pause he reached for it anyway, retrieving something from the inner pocket of it. When he opened his hand, there were two golden bands lying on his palm.

"Would you marry me?" He asked; and though his voice wavered badly, his tone was soft and firm. "It doesn't need to be right away, I just want to hope that one day…" He added hurriedly but she cut him off.

"As soon as you can walk on your own," she smiled, only dimly aware of the tear that rolled down on her face.

Trembling fingers picked up the smaller gold band from his palm and pulled it on her fourth finger, she then took the second ring and drew it on his finger.

Their hands remained clasped even after it was all done, and soon his thumb started to brush light circles on the back of her hand, but all she could see was his eyes. Eyes that only left hers to wander towards her lips before quickly meeting her gaze again.

Her heart gave an uncomfortable twist as blood rushed to her cheeks.

"I'm sorry for... surprising you earlier," she mumbled. "It was presumptuous."

Seeing the heat rise in his face as well she feverishly wished to take back the words immediately.

"I wanted you to kiss me, I assure you," he heaved. "I just didn't expect it to happen... well, ever."

"I promise to be more specific about it next time."

Again, his lips took up the now familiar shape of a small smile. Then his sight dropped to the carpet briefly before speaking again. "May I kiss you now?"

All she could do was nodding wordlessly a couple of times, her body already shivering with anticipation.

His hold on her tightened momentarily as he took a half-step towards her – for balance or of fear, she didn't know; then his eyes rose to meet hers with some apprehension, as if he wanted to give her ample time to… be prepared, maybe. Warm air fanned out all over cheeks, nose and lips from his irregular breathing for just a moment, just until he ever so slightly leaned down to brush his dry lips across hers.

For a heartbeat of time she dared not to breathe, afraid of chasing away that pleasant tingle from her lips.

All too soon, though, he drew back, cool air grazing her skin where his lips had just touched hers. In the same moment she pulled him back gently to continue, feeling light-headed when he timidly probed for a deeper kiss.

When they pulled apart a short while later he rested his forehead against hers.

"How can you bear the mere sight of it?"

"It's a lot easier when you're not raging at me," she replied softly but he tensed at the words still.

"Christine…" He started but then his voice broke and he stopped altogether.

"Partly it was my fault, I'm afraid," she added in a whisper.

"It was never your fault. It was mine." He fell silent, his irregular intakes of breath sweeping over her cheeks. "Either way, it's hardly any excuse."

"I'm willing to forgive you, though."

A shudder ran through him, shaking her frame as well.

"Are you?" She asked shyly.

"Of course," he breathed.

They stayed unmoving for another short while, finally pulling apart to some unspoken accord, then approached the mirror with the same silent agreement.

Cold air swept over her cheeks as the mirror slid to the side and she folded her arms around herself against the cold.

"You might want to wear a coat," he suggested.

She hurried to the rack next to the door and draped a jacket over her shoulders before turning the key in the lock as an afterthought. On her way back she threw the glass of cognac into a small bag and hung in on her shoulder, then finally turned off the lamp on the vanity.

"It'd be suspicious if they found evidence that we've come back here," she explained as she returned to him.

"It's almost alarming how thorough you are," he said, allowing her to take his arm as they entered the tunnels.

He lit the first torch with the candle he took from her vanity, then closed the mirror behind them. The elongated shadow of the two of them shifted on the floor with every flicker of the flame.

"Would you mind...?" He asked her, making a vague gesture towards the torch.

"Of course not," she said, taking the offered torch from his hand.

It took only a couple of adjustments to find a somewhat comfortable position, and then soon they fell back into a manageable pace as they walked the underground corridors. Only twice she had seen them before, but the dark and clammy tunnels couldn't have been farther from the luxurious descent of the first time – and she barely had any memories of their trip back to the surface on the following morning. Without his mesmerizing voice and imposing demeanor the narrow routes were less than empty – and strangely uncanny, making her feel as if she was walking in a distant, desolate place somewhere at the end of the world, having to fear the lurking dangers at every corner.

Quite ironically, the only menacing apparition whom she really had a chance to encounter down here was currently leaning on her shoulders, shuffling on his steps every now and then.

He didn't say anything, though, only when she needed direction did he utter a word or two, and so they did most of the way down to his house in almost complete silence. The various echoes of their movements bounced off of the stone walls, and his labored breathing did nothing to ease that horrid fear of the unknown territory.

Suddenly there was the smallest tug on her arm and he pulled her a little to the side as he reached out to get hold of the stone wall beside him. He leaned against it with a weary sigh.

"Christine, I don't feel too well."

"I've been wondering when you'd admit it," she said, placing her palm on his back lightly.

His forehead now rested against the wall as he closed his eyes, then his throat moved with a swallow. A cold tingle ran down on her spine when she saw him shudder. "Did I live up to your expectation?" His frail voice asked.

"Very much so," she assured him.

His arms twitched slightly, and even in the dim light of the torch it was clearly visible how pale his face was. Her heart gave a stinging tug.

"Take a sip," she offered him.

He shook his head. "No."

"It will make you feel better."

"It would only slow me down and make me drowsy," he rasped, slowly pushing away from the wall. "Let's go."

The rest of the route was a slow struggle after that: descending one more floor on the staircase to reach the third floor, then making that small roundabout route he insisted upon so that they didn't have to cross the lake. By the time they reached the front door he was leaning heavily on her, dragging one foot after the other.

As soon as they entered he turned to the left, taking her to a part of the house where she had never been before. After a couple of steps he opened a door on his left: it led to a rather small room – his room, probably. It was rather tidy and probably comfortable, too, although there was not much in it: a bed in the corner with a nightstand on its right, a wardrobe at the end of the bed and a couple of shelves on the right wall. It was all neat and well-organized but served no purpose beyond function.

She ushered him to his bed with a lump in her throat.

"Sit down," she said, pulling back the edge of the cover before propriety occurred to her.

He stopped before lowering himself to the mattress and quickly shed his jacket, then reached down to unfold the strip from around his thigh. Then glanced up at her with a troubled expression.

"Christine, I have to…"

"Of course," she said hastily, ignoring the heat that rushed to her cheeks.

His hands lifted to the clasp of his trousers and undid it with a few clumsy movements. As he pushed down the garment it revealed his underpants; the white material soaked with blood just above his left knee.

"Shouldn't you take that off, too?" She choked as he flopped down to the bed. "I'll bring you a clean one."

"Tomorrow," he wheezed, and when she looked up to him, his otherwise pale face was tainted with red at the cheeks. Well. She wouldn't have known how to handle that situation, anyway.

She knelt in front of him.

"You don't have to stay if it makes you feel uncomfortable," he breathed.

"How do you think I survived the last nine years?" She teased, relieved when she heard his short, breathless laugh.

"I suspected you'd choose to stay."

"Just tell me what to do," she said as she touched the hem of the ripped garment before easing it a little upwards on his thigh. The wound where the bullet hit him was still oozing blood and it was almost impossible to tell where the rip started. She couldn't stifle a startled gasp.

"It's not bad," he said but his frail voice belied the words. "The bullet is not even in there."

Indeed, as she looked closer she noticed that there were two wounds. Much better.

"I'll bring some water. Just… lie down, I guess."

She rose from the floor and got rid of the small bag, tossing the bottle on top of the nightstand. There was another door next to the one they had entered through; assuming it lead to a bathroom she tried the handle. Once inside she looked around in a frenzy: in one of the corners she detected a small basin that she quickly filled with water, then on her way out she grabbed a couple of towels, too.

As she returned to his side she deposited everything on the floor but one towel that she laid under his thigh, and then lowered herself to the carpet next to his half-sitting, half-lying form.

Her hand jerked as she dipped the cloth in the water, almost splashing it from the basin.

"Do you have something else than water to clear it?" She asked, wiping away dried blood from his skin.

"Antiseptic. It's in the bathroom."

A shudder ran down on her spine at the mention of the stinging liquid. "Anything else?"

"I'll prefer that to burning it out."

She swallowed uneasily. "All right."

Minutes ticked away in silence, only broken by the soft ripple of water. At last there was only the fresh blood seeping from the gash to be wiped away and she dropped the towel into the tainted water, then stood to retrieve the mentioned antiseptic. As she went, her sight got caught on the bottle on the nightstand.

"What else do I need to do after clearing it?" She asked warily, eyeing the bottle and the glass beside it.

"Close it. Wrap it up." He swallowed audibly. "You'll find everything in the cabinet."

The slight shiver that she noticed in the tunnels but dismissed it as the effect of cold on him was still present, but since then it had transformed into a series of well-defined shudders. She stepped to the nightstand, and after she filled the glass, handed it to him.

"You can drink it now."

He stared at the offered glass for a long while before he reached out a trembling arm, then gulped down most of the liquid in it. She left the room feeling that just a bit of the weight had been lifted from her lungs.

The following process seemed a lot simpler in theory than it proved to be in reality: cleaning the wound was one thing, but she wondered if the alcohol had taken away any of the pain when she set to closing the wound. Apart from the occasional sharp intakes of breaths she heard no sounds from him, though – but it might have been because he wanted to spare her feelings.

It was only when she finished that she realized how all of her muscles ached from being clenched so tightly for the whole time; even her knees protested when she rose to get rid of the needle and the other various necessities.

He was still awake when she returned.

"You've been so brave," he whispered as she sunk to the edge of the bed.

"Nothing what I've done tonight has been brave," she said, trying to will her hands into stillness. "Erik, he was standing with his back to me. He didn't even see me!"

"You'd have been far more in danger than you already were like this."

By now, the events of the night seemed to catch up with her: her body felt weighty and powerless yet twitching from a shiver every now and then, and she was incapable to stop them. She was exhausted, too – and was way too restless to even think about sleeping.

And he thought her to be brave.

"No matter how you phrase it, I'm still a murderer."

"Stop thinking of yourself like that!" It might have came out harsher than he'd intended because immediately he fell silent; his voice was much calmer when he spoke again. "There's no way back from there."

"I can't pretend it never happened."

"Why not?"

"Because it's… grave. It has to matter."

"It's not as if you'd ever consider doing it again."

"I'm afraid that's not true," she blurted after a long pause. "To save you, I'll do it again."

A small wince ghosted over his features and his hold on her fingers tightened just the slightest bit. "I'm sure I shouldn't feel as honored as I do now," he said.

The last words were merely whispered, his already weak voice receding even more as sleep neared him.

She brushed her thumb across the back of his hand.

"You've been an incredibly tempting Aminta," came his voice again but his eyes were barely visible now behind his low lids. "For a moment I forgot you were pretending."

"I wasn't pretending," she admitted softly.

His eyes closed for the briefest time. "Would you repeat this tomorrow morning? I want to remember that."

"Of course," she smiled, repeating the light sweep on his hand as his eyes disappeared completely behind his lids.

For a moment she felt light-headed as relief flooded her: he was well and safe, and now probably peacefully asleep and on track of being back to health. But – she was left alone, only her thoughts accompanying her.

Draining didn't even come close to describe how overwhelming tonight had been. Things didn't progress how she had expected them only a few hours prior the performance, but she couldn't bring herself to regret that she was completely unprepared for what happened in the end. Even now it was difficult to believe she had offered to play hostage, let alone what happened afterwards…

She wiped at her itching cheeks and her hands came back wet – up until now she didn't realize she had started crying.

If nothing else, she couldn't even have the solace of having done something that appalling was just a one-time occasion, committed out of fear and feeling threatened – but she certainly didn't regret choosing his life over someone else's, even if that someone happened to be a gendarme. Just… It would have been a lot easier if she never had had to figure out how far she was willing to go to save him.

The steady sound of breathing came from her left side, his chest rising and falling evenly with every breath.

All the while, he had been there with her. To some extent, he had conducted her through the evening, offering help when she wanted to be the one who assisted him. The initial idea might have been hers but it was him who made good of it mostly. How brave she was… This was what she needed to do, and she was only too glad that somehow she managed to carry it out until the end. Did that account as bravery as well? He certainly believed so.

He, on the other hand, was rather… composed… through most of it. Considering his less than imperturbable nature it must have been caused by routine than anything else, and the thought only added to her despair. But… not all of it must have been – he told her to leave when he thought that to be the best option for her, then welcomed her with a pledge of forever when she decided to stay. He certainly couldn't have been prepared for that; nor for offering to take punishment for something that she committed. It was him who was brave, not her.

Letting his fingers slip from her grasp she stood, but immediately his arm darted out from under the blanket and grabbed at her forearm with unexpected strength.

"Christine, don't leave. Please."

He was blinking up at her with eyes so aghast that she almost took a step back.

"Just until I bring here an armchair," she wheezed.

The strong hold on her arm loosened significantly. "All right," he breathed, releasing her slowly.

Taking hold of the large armchair just outside the door she walked back to the bed, finding him to be still very much awake.

"You can sleep now," she assured him softly, sinking down into the chair beside him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I've been half-crazed from the thought of losing you all night," he admitted in a rasp, his eyes already slipping closed.

"You've made quite a good job in concealing it," she sniffled, wiping at her cheeks hastily.

"I didn't want to trouble you more than you already were," he murmured with closed eyes.

"Of course," she whispered but he was already asleep.

Pulling up her knees to her chest she draped a quilt over her shoulders and settled into a somewhat comfortable position for the night.

It was her turn now – he'd been keeping watch long enough.


End file.
